Ban Nong Pheu monastery was situated in a dense
forest, rife with malaria. As the rainy season
approached, Ãcariya Mun advised monks, who came
simply to visit him, to hurry and leave before wet
weather arrived. In the dry season they could stay
without risk. Monks who fell victim to malaria just
had to put up with the debilitating symptoms. They
had no access to anti-malarial medicines – such
medicines being scarce everywhere back then. So,
they had to rely on the ‘therapeutic qualities of
Dhamma’ instead. This meant investigating painful
feelings as they arose with an intense, incisive
degree of mindfulness and wisdom. Otherwise, they
had no effective means of alleviating the pain. If
successful, they reduced the fever, thus effecting a
cure much quicker than could normally be expected.

A courageous monk who succeeds through the power of
mindfulness and wisdom to overcome the painful
feelings caused by illness, creates thereby a solid
base of support that will serve him well in times of
good health as well as in times of sickness.
Ultimately, at the time when death is imminent, he
will not feel weak and disheartened, and thus not be
overwhelmed. Having succeeded in establishing total
mastery of the truth about dukkha, he boldly faces
the natural process we call ‘death’. Mindfulness and
wisdom have taught him to recognize dukkha’s
intrinsic nature, so he never again worries about
pain. He always maintains the firm basis of truth he
achieved through his investigations. Later, when a
critical situation does arise, the mindfulness and
wisdom that he has trained to proficiency will come
to his rescue. He can utilize their investigative
skills to override the pain, allowing him to
immediately reach safety. Thus trained, mindfulness
and wisdom will not abandon their duty, leaving him
simply to wallow in misery as he did before he came
to realize the true nature of dukkha. On the
contrary, they will immediately engage the enemy.
His external manifestations of illness will resemble
those of any other sick person: that is, he will
appear just as weak and exhausted as anyone else.
But internally, mindfulness and wisdom will manifest
within his heart like soldiers preparing to do
battle. Then no amount of pain will affect his state
of mind. His only consideration will be the inner
search for the true causal basis of the physical
body, the painful feelings, the citta, and the
mental phenomena arising in conjunction with it;
for, this is precisely where the full intensity of
dukkha will converge at that moment. Since his
ability to confront the pain and endure its effects
is no longer a concern, his confidence is
unshakable. His primary concern is whether
mindfulness and wisdom will successfully realize the
entire truth of these phenomena in time.

Once a monk has investigated a Truth of Dhamma, like
the Truth of Dukkha, until its true nature is fully
understood, the next time he wishes to repeat that
accomplishment, he does not allow the difficulties
of the investigation to block his way and needlessly
weaken his resolve. He simply considers what he
previously did to enable him to see the truth so
clearly, then reproduces that same effort in the
present moment. In that way, a clear realization of
the truth always lies within the powers of his
mindfulness, his wisdom, his conviction, and his
persistent effort. The truth is: pain, body, and
citta all exist separately, each one being true
within its own sphere. They in no way conflict or
interfere with one another. By the power of this
realization, samudaya – the cause of dukkha – is
conquered, and all apprehension about the pain, the
condition of the illness, or the prospect of dying
is vanquished with it. Such fears are really
emotional concerns that demoralize the spirit and
lead to a debilitating sense of frustration. Once
this decisive breakthrough is achieved, the illness
is likely to subside as a result. But even if the
symptoms don’t entirely abate, they will not
intensify to the point where the citta is
overwhelmed by an onslaught of painful feelings,
thus producing a twofold illness: one of an ailing
body, the other of an ailing mind.

In times of severe illness, dhutanga monks are sure
to examine the resultant pain. It’s considered an
essential means of sharpening up mindfulness and
wisdom, thus honing their skills until they are
quick enough to keep pace with all mental activity –
thoughts that are inevitably bound up with physical
and mental pain. Any monk showing signs of anxiety
or uneasiness when ill is considered a failure
within the circle of practicing monks. Mentally, his
samãdhi and wisdom are insufficient to sustain him
in a time of crisis. Lacking mindfulness, his
practice is unbecoming and unreliable. This doesn’t
fit with a monk’s obligation to stockpile
mindfulness and wisdom as the weapons of choice for
protecting himself in his battles with pain of all
kinds. Those who have developed the qualities needed
to remain mindfully self-controlled, never showing
signs of agitation, are considered truly
praiseworthy examples of the warrior spirit typical
of practicing monks. In critical situations, they
stand their ground – and fight. The benefits of this
to their meditation are self-evident. Those good
results are also noticed by their fellow monks, all
of whom greatly admire a fighting mentality. The
others have faith that, no matter how overwhelming
the pain is, a dhutanga monk will never be defeated
– even in death. That is, his mindfulness and wisdom
will never accept defeat, for they are the
investigative tools he uses to search for a safe,
trouble-free way to go beyond when it finally
becomes impossible to keep body and soul together.

Anyone practicing Dhamma, who arrives at the Truth
proclaimed by the Lord Buddha, is absolutely certain
of its universal validity. Confronted with the
enemy, he will never accept defeat and withdraw his
forces. He is obligated to fight to the death. If it
so happens that his body cannot withstand the
pressure – he will let it die. But he will never
relinquish his citta, or the mindfulness and wisdom
which maintain and protect it. He is committed to
fighting on to victory. Failure is never an option.
He displays the attributes of a warrior who expects
to be victorious, and thus reach a sanctuary that is
truly safe and secure. Practicing with unwavering
faith in the principles of Truth, he is certain to
personify the maxim: dhammo have rakkhati dammacãriÿ
– Dhamma protects those who practice it faithfully.
If, however, he practices in a hesitant, halfhearted
fashion, the outcome will only contradict the Truth,
never validate it. It cannot be otherwise, because
Dhamma, the svãkkhãtadhamma, requires that results
be directly correlated with their causes.

Despite all the rewards the world seems to offer, a
dhutanga monk prefers to concentrate on the
immediate, inner rewards offered by the sãsana. For
example, the peaceful calm of samãdhi and the
intuitive wisdom needed to extract the kilesas
piercing his heart, both reward him with a steadily
increasing sense of contentment that is clearly
evident, moment by moment. These immediate, tangible
results are the ones a dhutanga monk strives to
realize. In doing so, he cuts through burdensome
problems and unresolved doubts. If he truly has the
capability to transcend the world in this lifetime –
be it today, tomorrow, next month, or next year –
this feat will be accomplished by means of his
unflagging diligence at each and every moment.

Ãcariya Mun employed inspirational teaching methods
to reinforce this fighting spirit, regardless of
whether his students were sick or not. He insisted
his monks always be warriors fighting to rescue
themselves from danger. But it was in times of
illness that he placed special emphasis on being
uncompromising. He worried they might become
dispirited in the face of this challenge. A sick
monk showing signs of weakness or anxiety, lacking
the mindful self-control expected of him, was bound
to be severely rebuked. Ãcariya Mun might actually
forbid the monks in his monastery to care for a sick
monk, believing that weakness, anxiety, and a
whining mentality were not the right way to deal
with illness. Sick people react in that way all the
time and never see it as a problem. But a monk,
whose status demands that he put up with difficult
situations and investigate them carefully, should
never react like that. It creates a bad example. For
if a monk brings this kind of defeatist attitude
into the circle of practice, it may spread like a
contagious disease, easily infecting others.

Think of the mess that might cause: Monks moaning
and groaning, tossing and turning like dying
animals. You are practicing monks, so don’t adopt
animal-like behavior. If you begin thinking and
acting like animals, the religion will soon develop
animal characteristics, spreading confusion
everywhere – definitely not the way of the Buddha.

We have all been sick at one time or another, so we
are well aware of what someone else feels like when
sick. It isn’t necessary for you to make a public
display of your discomfort. If mental anguish and
vociferous complaints were effective cures, then
conventional medicines would not be needed. Whoever
fell ill could just whine about his plight in a loud
voice to make the illness go way – easy as that.
There would be no need to spend a lot of time and
trouble treating the patient. Can whining really
cure your present illness? If it can’t, why disgust
everyone else with your useless whining? This is a
sample of the lecture Ãcariya Mun might give a monk
whose inability to face hardship was an annoyance to
the whole monastic community.

On the other hand, when he visited a sick monk, who
maintained a strong, mindful calmness, showing no
signs of agitation about his condition, Ãcariya Mun
invariably demonstrated his approval. He commended
the monk for his fortitude and gave him some very
inspiring words of encouragement. Even after his
recovery, Ãcariya Mun continued to praise that
monk’s mental toughness, holding him up as an
excellent example for the others.

“That’s how a true warrior in the battle with pain
gets the job done. Don’t complain about the enemy’s
overwhelming numbers. Just dig in and fight them all
to the limit of your strength and ability without
flinching. Never withdraw your forces, never accept
defeat. Never let the enemy stomp on you while
you’re down. We within the circle of practice must
be warriors. It is no use complaining how extremely
painful an illness is – just focus on the pain as it
arises and try to understand its true nature.
Regardless of how much, or how little pain we
experience, all pain is a manifestation of the Truth
of Dukkha.”

Any monk who was weak and submissive when faced with
a painful affliction heard a different tune from
Ãcariya Mun.

“If you want the Truth, but refuse to investigate it
because you are afraid of pain, how will you ever
discover where the Truth lies? The Lord Buddha
succeeded in realizing the Truth by thoroughly
investigating everything, not by whining about
everything like this useless monk now disgracing
himself. Where did the Buddha ever state that
reaching a true understanding requires moaning and
groaning? I didn’t study many books, so perhaps I
missed it. Where in the suttas does it refer to
moaning and groaning? If any of you who are
well-versed in the scriptures comes across a passage
where it states that the Buddha extolled the merits
of moaning and groaning, please point it out to me.
Then I won’t have to teach monks to trouble
themselves about investigating pain and putting up
with difficulties. You can all just moan and groan
until the Truth arises to fill the whole universe.
We can then witness the appearance of wise,
sagacious individuals who have succeeded in reaching
magga and phala by the power of their loud moans and
groans. They will be in a position to question the
legitimacy, and the current relevance, of the Dhamma
that Lord Buddha proclaimed over 2,500 years ago.

“The Dhamma of these latter-day sages will be a new,
modern Dhamma whose attainment requires no
troublesome investigations. All that’s required to
attain magga and phala is a chorus of moaning and
groaning, a method suited to an age when people
prefer to seek righteous results from unrighteous
causes – a pernicious attitude consuming the whole
world today. Before long there won’t be enough room
on the planet to hold all these modern-day sages. I
myself have an old-fashioned mentality. I trust what
the Lord Buddha taught and dare not take any
shortcuts. I am afraid that, as soon as I put a foot
forward, I would fall flat on my face –and die there
in disgrace. That would be immensely heart-breaking
for me.”

Any monk who showed weakness when in pain could
expect such uncompromising treatment. The same kind
of punishing rebuke was meted out to a monk who
succumbed to weakness or discouragement while
undertaking any harsh training practice, since they
were obstacles preventing him from making use of the
various investigative techniques at his disposal.
Ãcariya Mun constantly urged his monks to display
the fighting spirit necessary to overcome these
impediments, so they very often heard this dynamic
teaching. For them, seekers of the true Dhamma, his
words were a kind of therapy which roused their
courage, invigorated their practice, and kept their
spirits high. Thus buoyed, they were ready to
advance triumphantly, step by step, up the path to
that sphere of blissful contentment the Dhamma
promises to reveal. Inspiring commitment, his
stimulating instruction dispelled tendencies toward
weakness and laziness that prepare the way for the
misery of saÿsãra.

W HILE ÃCARIYA MUN lived there, two monks died in
the monastery at Ban Nong Pheu, and another one died
close by, at Ban Na Nai. The first to die was a
middle-aged monk who ordained specifically to
practice meditation. Living in Chiang Mai as Ãcariya
Mun’s disciple, he eventually followed his teacher
to Udon Thani, and then Sakon Nakhon – sometimes
staying with him, sometimes practicing alone, until
he finally passed away at Ban Nong Pheu. He was very
skilled in samãdhi meditation, and, prompted by
Ãcariya Mun’s constant tutoring, his wisdom practice
had already developed a sense of urgency. He was a
very devout, resolute character who gave wonderfully
lyrical talks on Dhamma, in spite of being wholly
illiterate. His talks, quick-witted and clever, were
invariably illustrated with skillful similes,
allowing his listeners to easily grasp his meaning.
Unfortunately, he had tuberculosis. Long a chronic
illness, it eventually reached a critical stage
while he was living in the monastery. There, early
one morning at about seven o’clock, he passed away
in a calm, peaceful manner, befitting one who had
been a genuine practicing monk for so long.
Witnessing his final moments, and then the moment
when his breathing stopped, I developed a deep
respect for this monk and his proficiency in
meditation.

At death, it is we who control our destiny. So we
must take sole responsibility for our future. For no
one else, no matter how close or dear, can intervene
to affect the outcome. Before that moment arrives,
we must develop a means of focusing all our strength
and skill on facing this critical juncture wisely,
so as to extricate ourselves from danger and safely
move on. Our final moments will present us with a
significant challenge. All of us, whether we are
well-prepared or not, will eventually be confronted
with this situation. Those of us who have devised
clever means for helping ourselves will fare well.
But those of us, who remain ignorant and confused,
will founder helplessly, unable to salvage our fate.

The Lord Buddha declared: “Kho nu hãsa kim ãnando…”.
7 It can be translated essentially as: When the
world is engulfed in lust, anger, and delusion – a
blazing bonfire that rages day and night–how can you
keep smiling and laughing all the time? Why don’t
you immediately search for a refuge you can depend
on? Stop this
negligence now! Don’t carry on with it until the day
you die, or else you will experience the painful
consequences into the future – indefinitely. The
Buddha was cautioning people not to be unreasonably
heedless in their lives. But when people hear the
Buddha’s words today, they feel so embarrassed, so
ashamed of their wanton infatuation with sensual
pleasures that they want to hide their faces.
Despite their shame, they are still lured by their
desires – loving this, hating that – for this kind
of intransigence has always been an integral part of
worldly attitudes. And they don’t know how to stop
themselves. So, sadly, their only response to the
Buddha’s warnings is shame.

The death of the monk at Ban Nong Pheu should prove
a valuable lesson to all of you who are headed
toward the same fate. Please consider the manner of
his death carefully. Just as he was about to pass
away, Ãcariya Mun and the other monks, who were on
their way for alms, stopped by to witness that sad
event. Afterwards, Ãcariya Mun stood in silent
contemplation for a moment; then he spoke to
everyone in a solemn tone of voice:

“There’s no need to worry about him. He has already
been reborn in Abhassara, the sixth brahma realm.
He’s all right for now. But it’s a shame in one way,
for had he lived longer and developed his insight
with a little more intensity, he could well have
been reborn in one of the five suddhãvãsa brahma
realms. 8 There he would have progressed directly to
the ultimate goal, destined never again to enter the
cycle of rebirth. And what about the rest of you –
what kind of rebirth are you preparing for
yourselves? Will it be one in the animal world, the
ghost world, or in the realms of hell? Or will it be
as a human, a deva, or a brahma? Or will it be
Nibbãna? Which will it be? If you want to know for
sure, look closely at the compass bearing of your
heart to see the direction in which you are headed.
Examine yourselves now to find out whether your
present course is a good one, or a bad one. Once you
are dead, it will be too late to make adjustments.
Everyone knows that death is final – nothing more
can be done after that.”

The second death was that of a monk from Ubon
Ratchathani who came down with malaria and died a
month later. Shortly before it happened, his death
was foreseen in the meditation of another monk who
was living there at the time. The monk went to speak
with Ãcariya Mun the next evening. After discussing
various aspects of meditation practice for awhile,
their conversation turned to the sick monk, and the
monk informed Ãcariya Mun about the vision that
appeared in his meditation.

“Something odd occurred in my meditation last night.
I was investigating in my normal way when I reached
a state of calm and suddenly saw an image of you
standing before a pile of firewood, saying, ‘Cremate
that monk right here. This is the best place to do
it.’ I don’t fully understand the meaning of it.
Will that sick monk die of malaria? His condition
certainly doesn’t appear to be that serious.”

Ãcariya Mun responded immediately.

“I have been investigating this matter for a long
time now. He is bound to die, it cannot be avoided.
Still, he won’t have died in vain. I have seen his
mental state: it’s exceptional. So, he’s sure to
fare very well. But I strictly forbid you to mention
anything about this to him. If he finds out that
he’s certain to die, he will feel very disappointed.
Then his health will deteriorate even further, and
his mental state could waver to the extent that he
misses the excellent rebirth he can expect now.
Disappointment is a very harmful emotion in this
respect.”

Several days later, that monk’s condition suddenly
took a turn for the worse. He died calmly at about
three A. M. This prompted me to consider how Ãcariya
Mun must have investigated the circumstances that
lay behind every incident that appeared to him
during meditation, pursuing them all until he
clearly understood their significance. Then he
simply let go, allowing them to follow their natural
course.

One morning, a disciple of Ãcariya Mun, who was
running a very high fever due to malarial infection,
decided to forgo alms round and fast for the day. He
used his investigative skills to battle the intense
pain from early morning until three in the
afternoon, when the fever began to abate. Feeling
completely exhausted in the middle of the day, he
drew his attention to and concentrated solely on
those points where the pain was most intense, but
without making an effort to probe and analyze the
pain with wisdom. At midday, Ãcariya Mun momentarily
sent out the flow of his citta to check how the monk
was coping with the pain. Later in the afternoon,
while visiting Ãcariya Mun, he was surprised to hear
Ãcariya Mun immediately question his mode of
practice.

“Why were you investigating like that? How can you
expect to understand the truth about the body, the
pain, and the citta, if you merely concentrate your
mind on a single point? Instead, use your intuitive
wisdom to analyze all three of them. In that way,
you discover the true nature of each. Yours is the
kind of concentration one expects from a yogi: it
has all the single-minded intensity of a dogfight!
It is not the right practice for a monk wanting to
discover the truth about pain. Don’t do it again.
It’s the wrong way to go about realizing the many
truths to be found within the body, the pain, and
the citta. During the middle of the day I examined
your practice to see how you were coping with the
pain caused by your fever. I noticed you were just
focusing your attention exclusively on the pain. You
were not using mindfulness and wisdom to ease the
problem by looking at all three aspects of it: body,
pain, and citta. This is the only effective way to
quell pain, and. neutralize the symptoms, so that
the fever subsides as well.”